The Last Minute
by GM
Summary: On a time critical mission, things go wrong for Napoleon and Illya


THE LAST MINUTE

by

gm

_6 May 67_

**09:05AM** - -

"There are times I wonder if any other agents are employed in Section Two."

Striding next to his partner, Napoleon Solo tilted his head and smiled at the sarcasm.  "Feeling a little over worked, are you?"

"I have not unpacked from Lisbon yet."

"Gee, that was only," the American consulted his watch, "Five hours ago."

"And Mr. Waverly calls us into his office before we have finished our reports."

"Now there's a pity."

As they entered the elevator, Illya Kuryakin glanced sideways at the senior agent.  "It will catch up with you, my friend.  It always does."

"Not necessarily.  That's why I have Maggie."

"Ah, yes, the most valuable asset in Section Two."

The dark-haired operative nodded.  Field agents were notoriously action-oriented, loathing deskwork with a passion.  The Number Three Section Two agent, Margaret Simms, ran the administrative functions of the department like a legal office.  She was efficient, brilliant, and deadly -- with mandatory forms.  

Solo thought of her as the desk-bound, female equivalent of Illya.  With a shock of straw-colored straight, short hair, she was disarmingly petite and deceptively ruthless.  Her whip-like tongue had stung many an agent for falling short of standard in executive affairs.  And no one wanted to be on her bad side.  Punishment was too unkind – taking care of all your own reports!  In triplicate.  Or worse, dealing first hand with the medical and budgetary staff!

Gallantry notwithstanding, Solo stayed on her good side – always remembering birthdays, special chocolates, favorite flowers and even the treats favored by her little dog.  It was worth the maintenance to keep her happy.  His expense account woes by themselves were enough to give him ulcers, let alone the medical details accrued by his injuries.

Illya had his own secret methods.  Napoleon suspected something a little more personal than flowers and chocolates.  However, whatever the Russian did, it worked.  Maggie never turned them down for operational administrative details no matter how tedious.  That left them free to go save the world on the front lines.  More importantly, it saved them from working on their own paperwork.

"So, you interested in double-dating tonight?"

Illya rolled his eyes as he stifled a yawn.  "The only date I have is with my bed.  Alone.  Jet lag on top of jet lag.  I don't know how you do it."

"Motivation, Illya.  Jan in Section One wants to try that new jazz nightclub up the block."

"Is she the one you've been trying to date for – how long?"

"Almost three weeks."

"Why the effort?"

"The challenge, I suppose."

"And she wants a chaperone?"

Solo scowled.  One, that his partner was right and two, that his partner read him so well as to be right.  Without needing an acknowledgment, Illya smirked knowingly, again refusing anything more social than the insides of his eyelids.

Entering Waverly's office, they stopped, but did not sit at the large circular table.  Waverly was consulting with Lisa Rogers, his executive assistant.  The two were just walking in from the adjacent communications center.  The old man barely gave the new arrivals a glance.

"We have a crisis, gentlemen."  He nodded toward Rogers.  "Premier Mombar, the exiled leader of Sengala, is to speak at the UN today."

"He wishes to apply to the UN for support of his party to be reinstated in Sengala," Kuryakin supplied readily.

Solo shot him a sour look for the one-upmanship.  On the plane back form Spain, Kuryakin had buried himself in newspapers, or napped, while Napoleon napped, or used his time making time with stewardesses.   

"That's where they had that nasty coup a few months back," he chimed in, not to be found wanting beside his partner's encyclopedic intellect.

"Correct on both counts, gentlemen.  Mombar's life has been threatened and we have reason to believe THRUSH might be behind it.  They have found refuge with the current ruler there. That would stop if Mombar returns to office."  Waverly didn't bother to sit down but read some new reports before he reached his desk.

"The UN Secretary General has agreed to hold preliminary meetings here in our building where security is guaranteed.  Your job will be to ensure his safe arrival."  He nodded toward Rogers.  "Miss Rogers has the details.  Good luck, gentlemen."  Then he drifted back to the communications room.

Lisa Rogers handed Solo a packet.  "This is his route from the UN and his ETA.  UN security is handling protection for the motorcade."

Glancing quickly over the information, Solo nodded.  Before he could thank her she was off, following Waverly.

"Not much for chit-chat today, are they?" he observed dryly as they exited.

"There is very little time.  Did you notice, he's leaving the UN within the hour," Illya pointed out, checking his watch.  

"Then we rely on our usual improvisational skills, Mr. K."

**09:28AM** – 

"You're my deceptively cunning distraction."

"I don't like it."

Jackets off, shirtsleeve rolled up, the agents leaned over Solo's desk, studying the various timetable numbers and routes of the motorcade.  Upon seeing a recent picture of Mombar, he formulated a decoy plan.  Mombar, and a Section One agent from Algeria, looked amazingly alike.  From a distance, the two could be mistaken for twins.  UNCLE also had a number of black limousines to match the premier's car.  

Solo planned on setting up three decoys.  One to enter at Del Floria's Taylor Shop.  One to enter with Illya in the underground garage.  The last was going into the Mask Club where another secret entrance was located.  The look-alike double would go with Solo.  The others – long-distance doubles -- would be similar in build and attire, but were deemed less likely to be targets.  All the while, the real Premier Mombar would enter UNCLE HQ at the secret marina dock from the East River.

 Illya was not impressed.  "There is very little time for a switch."

"That's where the talent comes in.  Last minute rescues are our specialty."

This was one of the aspects of their partnership where they really shined.  Out in the field, dodging bullets, making impossible missions succeed, saving each others lives – those elements were part of the adrenalin rush that made their job thrilling.  This – the planning, the thinking, the cunning plots – those were where they really had fun.  When their wits and cagey intellects could come up with brilliant ploys that looked flawless on paper.  Before the hazards and injuries, this was where they could prove themselves as tacticians.

Kuryakin's eyes narrowed with disapproval.  "You've set yourself up with the most dangerous part of the assignment."

"You're the cunning part of the plan, remember.  I need you where you can move fast if something goes wrong.  That's in the garage, with decoy number two.  THRUSH would be more likely to believe I am escorting the premier, so it's logical I go with the main decoy.  But I could be wrong.  They might like the garage better.  Either way, we're both targets.  Does that put your complicated, dark Russian mind more at ease?"

"I still don't like it.  The timing --"

"Is tricky, but we can do it.  At the last minute, all forces will converge.  THRUSH will be confused.  Before they can act we'll all be safely in the building."

Illya's scowl said it all.

There would be no compromise on this, Napoleon had already decided.  They would protect the premier, but he would not leave any Section Two agents out in the cold to be easy targets.  He would go with the highest risk group and personally protect the double.

Sympathizing with his partner, he knew Illya didn't like him taking the overt risks like this, but there was little choice.  He certainly wasn't going to send Illya out into the strongest danger factor.  Rank had privileges and taking the risks to protect his friend was one of them.  

"Everything has to run perfectly."

Very little chance of that happening in his business, he inwardly sighed, but offered a wry grin.  He tried to lighten the mood.  "Bet you if THRUSH attacks it will be at the Mask Club."

Kuryakin frowned in silent exasperation.  

"I'll treat.  Double date at the jazz club?"

The blue eyes held his momentarily, assessing the shallow offer for what it was – a peace offering.  Neither liked the cards they had been dealt, but they would play the game through.

"I thought you said it was all about motivation."  The insult lacked sting when Illya delivered it with a droll tone and the hint of a smile.  "I shall see you after the mission.  Good luck, my friend."

"You too."

**10:04AM** – 

To keep the other teams informed Solo kept his communications channel open.  Sitting in the passenger seat of the limo, he directed the driver to pull over at an overpass and wait.  The UN motorcade drove by.  The second limo in the line of four turned right just before the overpass, and the car Solo was in slipped into it's place, emerging on the other side as if nothing had happened.

"Switch completed.  Team three, progress?"

"We're a block from the Mask Club."

"Main bus?"

"All clear," the UN security chief assured.

"Illya?"

"Two blocks from the garage."

"All right.  ETA in ten minutes."

"You're running late."

There was the merest trace of stress in Kuryakin's voice.  He didn't like it when they had to improvise on improvisation.  Solo assured it was just a matter of traffic lights.  No problems.  Proceed as scheduled.

**10:12AM** – 

Still slightly ahead of schedule, Kuryakin's limo entered the underground garage when Solo's motorcade was still a block away.  Stalling outside HQ would have looked suspicious, so he had to go with the bad timing.  

As per the plan, he leaped out of the car, covering with his drawn weapon as a disguised UNCLE agent rushed from the limo to the building.  As expected, nothing happened.  No attack.  Illya hated when he was so right.  Right about these things anyway.  

From the moment Napoleon had proposed he go in with the first team, Illya had a bad feeling about the plan.  Nothing overt.  Certainly nothing in the scheme was flawed, but he felt it an unnecessary risk for Solo to be the one with the main decoy.  That was what subordinate agents were for!  Not the head of Section Two!  Not his partner.

As soon as they were securely in the building he contacted his partner.  Team Two safe.  Napoleon sounded relieved.

**10:13AM**

"Well done, Illya.  I told you it would probably be at the Mask Club."

"Team Three reporting.  We've just entered the building via the Mask Club entrance.  All clear."

The limo turned the corner and slowed as it approached Del Floria's.  Two minutes behind schedule.  If there was going to be an attack, it would be his motorcade.  Alert for a trap, Solo noted kids riding skateboards in front of one of the brownstones near Hemmingway's curio shop that doubled as yet another secret entrance to HQ.  An ice cream truck just turned onto the street at the far end of the block.  A woman was walking her dog.  A woman with two small children stood at the mailbox across the street.

The abstract civilian traffic was noted with automatic scrutiny, while his focus was on more overt dangers.  Seeing nothing obvious in the way of threats, Solo tensed, ready to make a dash for the tailor shop.

**10:14AM**

In the main Section Five security control room, Kuryakin watched the monitors as the limo stopped in front of Del Floria's.  The rooftop snipers were in place.  Security cameras swept the block.  Nothing suspicious.  Illya focused on the monitor from the camera directly across the street.

On camera, he saw Solo emerge first, holding the door open for the double.  They rushed down the steps to the tailor shop.  Before the door closed one of the kids on the skateboard took a tumble.  The skateboard flew down the stairs and into the open door of the tailor shop.

The internal camera inside the tailor shop blanked out the screen, momentarily washing to white.  Alarm klaxons blared inside HQ indicating an attack.  The external camera on the street showed Del Floria's engulfed in smoke!  Seconds later the view started to clear.  In the objective, two-dimensional black and white scene he saw only flames and debris where the tailor shop had been.

**10:18AM**

Cameras in main reception from Del Floria's showed the main entrance was sealed all agents inside safe. Stomach tight with dread, Illya barked orders, demanding reports.  No one had any information.  The doors at the main reception remained closed.  No one from Del Floria's made it through the wide steel security doors to safety. As per standard procedure, the doors would stay closed while agents outside assessed the damage and dealt with the problem.

Illya wasted no time racing to the underground garage entrance.  There he watched monitors and waited until the agents outside gave the all clear.  He wouldn't even bother arguing with the personnel at the main entrance.  They would not understand his pressing need to get to Del Floria's.

Seconds ticked by and he impatiently ordered the doors in the garage entrance to be opened.  On another monitor, Section Five Security Chief Briers reminded, from the control room, they would have to completely secure all exterior locations.  The East River entrance was still open.  Illya had completely forgotten about the Premier.

Ty Kalakua, another Section Five agent, came up behind Illya and reported all entrances secured except for the street at Del Floria's.  As soon as Mombar was secure within HQ Section Five teams would be released to check on the tailor shop.

"Is the Premier safe?"

"Just coming in now," Kalakaua reported.

Illya glanced at one of the monitors and saw the UNCLE boat just docked in the river cavern.  One less thing to worry about, although it didn't really concern him.  His entire focus was on the burning tailor's shop.  It didn't seem possible that anyone could have survived.  Have a little faith, he chided.  Napoleon was famous for his ability to extricate himself from seemingly fatal situations.  Give him a chance.

"Let me go out –"

"Can't do it, Kuryakin," Kalakaua returned with firm sympathy.  "We're not secure.  And the extraction teams go out first, you know that."

Men and women in bulletproof vests, helmets and masks joined them in the reception area, ready to respond to the emergency.  They would be the first line of defense.  Sweep the area again for enemies and booby-traps.  Only after they considered it safe would rescue and medical personnel be called to care for survivors.

**10:22AM**

Pacing, Illya whipped out his communicator and called **_Channel S_, the private channel he used to contact his partner.  No response.  When the perimeter agents signaled that the THRUSH attackers were eliminated, the tactical team was released for a final sweep.  When they raced out the door Kuryakin sped out with them.  Kalakaua tried to stop the impulsive Russian, but Illya was already sprinting through the garage.**

**10:37AM**

Del Floria's was a shambles.  Fire licked at what was left of the front of the building.  Inside, through thick smoke, Illya could barely see anything except fallen debris.  The tactical team wouldn't go down the steps.  They were not equipped for it and they were only there to fight enemies, not rescue survivors.  Illya removed his jacket, covered his face, and got as far as what was once the doorway before the heat and smoke drove him back.

"Napoleon!  Napoleon, can you hear me!  Napoleon!"

No sign of life.  No sounds.  No response to the calls.  Kicking at some smoldering lumber, he started clearing a path, continuing to call for his partner.  Kalakaua brought a fire extinguisher and he used it to blast the flames closest to him.  When some of the smoke cleared, he saw the multi-colored robes of Fletcher, the agent who had doubled for the Premier.  He checked the dark wrist for a pulse and found none. 

**10:43AM**

Moving further into the wrecked store, he heard movement from behind the counter.  Rescue and search teams were coming in behind now, moving debris and quelling the fires.

"Napoleon!"

Coughing, sputtering, a hand waved from behind the scarred wood.  "Me, Mr. Kuryakin."

Del Floria.  Edging in, Illya was glad to see the damage was not as serious this far in.  He moved over and helped the tailor lean up against the counter.  Hoping he would see his partner behind the shelter, he was disturbed there was no one else in sight.

As smoke cleared, Illya spotted a cut and bleeding hand; a familiar silver/blue-stoned pinky ring, striped shirtsleeve and silver cufflink poking out from under part of the ceiling.  Appalled, Illya scrambled over and threw or kicked obstructions away until he cleared most of the wreckage off his partner.  

As he cleared, wood and plaster fell around him.  The damage control people tried to pull him out, but he stubbornly refused to leave without his partner.  Others tried to crowd in to help, but there was very little room to maneuver and Illya would not relinquish his role as lead liberator.

Rescue personnel started to clear the area.  The regular fire department had arrived.  Illya still refused to leave.  He cleared enough debris off Solo's chest to ascertain his friend was still breathing.  That relief behind him, he directed the few others able to help to clear off the wood and plaster on his friend.

Solo was covered in dust and ash, his jacket smoldering in several places.  What made Kuryakin stop cold was the beam of wood that looked like it impaled Solo's shoulder into the wall.  One of the firemen tried to pull him back and he savagely pushed the man away, insisting he would not leave without his friend.

"Napoleon!  We have to get out!" he agonized, trying to figure a way to get his friend free and out of here in a matter of minutes.  "Napoleon!"

A chunk of ceiling fell, nearly hitting Illya.  It did hit Solo's exposed leg, and that motivated the Russian to desperately excavate.  He told the firemen to try and secure the beam.  Then he was tried to pull Solo out.  

Kalakaua joined him.  "This is useless, Illya.  The building's going to go down!  We have to get out!" the Hawaiian admonished, but continued digging along with his Section Two colleague.

Shoving all the wreckage away that he could, Illya gritted his teeth, knowing he was going to rip his friend's shoulder apart doing this, but it was either that or let Napoleon be buried in burning debris.

Experimentally, Illya shifted the American.  The activity moved the beam, dangerously tilting it at a perilous angle.  The movement must have been agonizingly painful, because Solo's eyes snapped open.  They were dazed, implying he was not coherent, but thankfully dulled by shock.  

He blinked at his partner.  "See you waited till the last minute, as usual," he slurred.

"Just like you insist on last minute heroics."

Coughing, Solo flinched as the pain started to register.  "Never saw it coming.  Skateboards."

"I know."

"You better not stick around."

"I'm not.  And you're coming out with me."  

Solo tried to focus.  Shaking his head, he winced.  "Get out."  He coughed as more debris fell around.  "Go . . . ."  His eyes rolled back and fluttered closed.  "No heroics."

Kuryakin shielded him until the dust and plaster ceased raining down.  "Look who's talking," he accused gently, noting the beam had shifted across Solo's chest to rest on the outer shoulder.  It would be easier to slide him out now, but the pressure of the beam might take his left arm off at the shoulder.  Not a pretty prospect, but at least he would be alive.

Noting the firemen were ready, he placed a hand on Solo's face.  "Napoleon."

Squinting, the brown eyes opened and blearily stared at him.

"We're going to bring the house down, my friend.  Just a minute and we'll be out of here."

Something overhead cracked and he did not wait for another cue.  The beam shifted and he yanked Solo away, dragging him as clear as possible before plaster and wood rained down.  Choking, he stumbled to his knees, hauling Solo with him until helping hands lifted him and his burden and carried them out of the building.

**11:48PM**

Sore from the bits of falling building that had pelted him, Illya paced the familiar floor of the UNCLE medical wing.  Solo was still unconscious.  Finishing his coffee, he threw away the cup and returned to the recovery room where Solo was resting after surgery.  Loss of blood and broken bones were disturbing, but it could have been much worse.  Illya had been so afraid he had lost his friend this time.

Napoleon stirred, and Illya moved over to touch his arm.  The brown eyes blinked open.

"You're all right," he assured quietly.  "Rest."

Nodding. Solo's eyes closed, the merest trace of a smile on his lips.  His hand squeezed Illya's, then relaxed.  Sighing with relief, Kuryakin sat on the side of the bed and watched his friend sleep.

**11:59PM**

"You really outdid yourself this time."

"What, surviving a building fall on top of me?  Done that before."

Sourly, Illya pointed out, "and you will probably do it again.  You are addicted to heroics."

"Like you're addicted to last minute rescues?  What a great team."

Illya offered a wry smile.  "Yes."

**THE END**

****


End file.
